The Goddess of Storms

The ocean rose, like a salty tongue, to lick the shoreline. The sky was bleached alabaster white, marbled with gray clouds that threatened more than rain. The voice of thunder rumbled as though it came from below one's feet. The beach seemed to be turned to miles of salt, white against the white of the sky against the blanched waves.
It was a perfect day for a battle.

The Mer-king reared up from the depths, seaweed woven into his crown, his scepter glowing a hot red. He roared in challenge and shook his fist at the bleached sky.

As if in response, the clouds darkened and opened to reveal a staircase of swirling gold. Stepping down from the sky, the Goddess, radiant in all her prismatic splendor, looked about, as if to ask who might dare to disturb her stormy preparations.

Spying the Mer-king, flanked on either side by a battalion of mer-men, she laughed. The sound was like the tinkling of rain against window panes, like sunlight jumping off of water. Unamused, the Mer-king raised a haughty salute and heaved a jagged breath. It was all a game. Petty disruptions in prelude to the ultimate conquest; her heart.

Every autumn, before the winter winds twined their icy fingers about his throat, he and the Goddess danced about one another. They raged at one another, fiercer combatants never before seen. The storms they created ravaged continents, broke open the earth, drowned the cities.

And, in the calm after they had battled to the brink of death, he would woo her. Pleading prettily that she join him below the lightning shattered waves. She would laugh, that beautiful musical laugh, and she would kiss him before she would disappear in the rain drenched sky.

This time he was determined. Determined that the destiny he was promised by the Sea Witch would be his. That he would be crowned the God of Sea and Sky, consort to the Goddess of Storms.

This time, when he took her in his embrace, she would find herself within the sea's embrace as well. She would preside over sparkling pearl palaces, gardens of brightly coloured plants glowing in the depths and his heart.

Imperfect God

I am not looking to be saved.
Nor, am I looking to be rescued.

I don't need someone to come in and die for my sins.

I need someone who is willing to stand by me through the hard times.
I need someone who is willing to hold my hand through the worst times.

I don't need a God that exists somewhere in the ether.
Possibly listening to me,
Maybe answering,
Maybe not.

Maybe forgiving,
Maybe hateful,
I don't need that.

I need someone who can be God in flesh.
Someone who forgives me,
Someone who loves me,
Someone who takes care of me.
And who is willing to stand by me no matter what happens.

I don't need omnipotence.
I need closeness.
I don't need foreknowledge of what's going to happen.
I need... I need vision.

I need vision to look forward and say,
"Maybe this will happen and maybe it won't, but, no matter what happens, I'll be here."

And the God in Christianity doesn't give me that.
The God of Islam does not give me that.
Buddha doesn't give me that.
None of the Gods give me that.

None of the Gods are FLESH.

I need someone who can hold me when I'm crying.
I need someone who can wipe my tears away.
I need someone to be in love with;
Not just metaphorically speaking.

I don't need righteousness.
I don't need blessedness.

I need fallibility.

I don't want perfect.
I'm an imperfect being.
I want an imperfect God.

Its so much easier to love a God who has fallen short,
than it is to love one who has never fallen at all.

The Dragon King: Part Three

Faolán and his scouts made their way through one of the smaller tunnels on the western side of their bivouac. Within the tunnel they found a dozen pools of fresh water, unspoiled and cool. They filled jugs for the camp before retreating back to their tents, wary of unknown creatures that might be lurking in the dark.

They did not rest long, quickly returning to their task of exploration. They did so with little zeal, as they were exhausted from marching and longing for fresh air. As children of Naira, the Moon Goddess, they felt a growing uneasiness the further they were from the moonlight. Though they adored their queen, they questioned her judgment and, silently, pondered returning to the surface, with or without the prince of dreams.

As they explored, they came to an abandoned oasis, which had become overgrown with malum flowers and carrion trees. In the humidity, and frondescence, was a rather large pool of stagnant water shadowed by the skeletal remains of a dragon cousin, the drake. Smaller than a dragon’s, the skeleton seemed poised to strike at an enemy and the foliage around it appeared as though it had risen up to prevent it. It was a startling sight and the men stood in awe of the scene. As they stood, agog, Kiri crept into the passage. She drew near to Faolán, her teal eyes glowing. She did not touch him, her gaze bound to the view.

As if rising from a dream, Faolán felt her presence and he turned to look at the sorceress. She stood as still as a statue, at first, her face unusually pale. Half in fear, and half in wonder, he reached out to touch one tangled strand of beryl hair. She turned to look at him and his mouth went dry.

Slowly, she moved toward the remains, whispering. No one moved to stop her, watching in shock as the vegetation parted for her. The drake's bones began to tremble, as though a great weight was pressed upon it. The witch lifted her hands, almost in reverence, and her mumbling became chattering, growing louder and louder. It grew until her voice was as deep as the ocean and as brutal as the winter winds. The drake began to sway and the overgrown forests fell back, releasing it.

"Show me." she demanded, her hair rising as though in the grip of a building storm. She began to glow, her tattoos suddenly vibrant and her whole being vibrating under some unseen strain. An illusory storm burst inside the tunnel, bending the overgrowth to its will and building in pressure until it seemed that they would all be destroyed. Several guards fell into a swoon, collapsing like flowers in a hurricane.

"Kiri," cried Faolán, throwing himself against the swirling magic. "Cease! Thou wilt destroy us all!"

Without turning, she threw out a hand and he was ensnared by snake-like vines, twisting themselves into his clothing, almost to his skin.

Tangled, he watched in wonder as the drake's skeletal wings began to beat, lifting it up and revealing a hidden room. It hovered for a moment, blazing as brightly as a torch, waiting for some signal. Then, gently, the drake landed, settling like an over-sized dog before a fire, its long decayed snout pointing toward the door. Just as quickly as it had risen up, the witch storm surceased and the whole passageway fell into an unearthly silence.

The scouts watched, gaping at the scene in something resembling reverence and horror, as Kiri neared the wooden archway. The door opened slowly, an eerie light illuminating an ivy draped frame and a glimpse of glowing runes. She seemed entranced, her body moving almost mechanically, still pulsating with the effects of magic.

Faolán, still twisted up with vines, tried to reach his sword to hack his way out. The vines, however, suddenly offered no resistance and fell away. Sprinting toward Kiri, he tried to grab her and pull her away from the entrance. Too late, his fingers grazed her henna skin as the heavy oaken door slammed in his face. No matter how he beat against it, he could not enter and, when he pressed his ear to the timber, he heard nothing but his own heart pounding against his ribs.

Kiri glanced back at the door, Faolán's touch against her wrist fading and her heart pounding in her ears. She should be unsurprised, the unseen thread drawing her to the center of the hexagonal chamber. The voices of ghosts bubbled in her blood, warnings and secrets, hooking into her subconscious and dragging her to her knees. The walls were carved with shimmering crystal eyes, each shining brighter than the next and blinking out of time. They observed her, kneeling as though she were rooted to the floor.

"Why have you come, enchantress?" asked a soft voice, resonating long years and deep scars.

"I have come as a prisoner of the Faery Court." she replied. The weight of years settled upon her shoulders, like a heavy cloak, pressing her against the rough hewn floor.

"What do the Moon children desire to find within these caves?"

"We come seeking the Dragon King and the Prince of Dreams. The Queen of Faeries is under siege by the King of Goblins and she is in need of an ally. No ally is as powerful as a Dragon."

"The Dragons have long faded from this world," said the voice, all the eyes closing in unison, leaving the room in complete darkness. "You will find no allies here."

Struggling to her feet, Kiri took a step toward a large crystal, the color of a swan's beak, fighting down the overwhelming terror she felt as all the voices within her went silent.

"Please, she cried, her hands outstretched, imploring. "There are myths, stories passed between the goddesses as they bathe, that say that the Dragon King, Uduak, still lives. That he can be awakened by one, such as I, and that he will grant aid to one who is in desperate need."

The eyes flung open, the room suddenly bursting with a light brighter than the moon and the sun, focusing on her. She covered her eyes with her arm, crumpling to her knees in pain.

"What makes you believe that you are in desperate enough need for such as Uduak to help you?" boomed the voice, shaking the room.

"I have no proof of desperate need," she cried, tumbling over and attempting to shield her eyes. "I am only one, and small, but I feel the calling of my trees in my blood and I will beg on these knees before you. I long only to return to my grove and that the Goblin King shall not have the Faery Queen to wife."

The lights dimmed a moment and Kiri looked up, afraid and hopeful. The large crystal, the color of a swan's beak, blinked at her.

"Give us a promise, witch." said the voice, speaking in time with the blinking eyes.

"What would you have of me?" she asked, tense and weak.

"When the Dragon King asks for a price, give him whatever he may ask."

"I will do this." she replied, though she was afraid. What "price" might Uduak require?

Satisfied, the eyes closed, one by one, and another door was revealed in the stone wall. The voices returned, whispering the way to the King's chambers, and she felt it like a sizzle in her blood. At the same moment that the voices drifted into the background, the opposite door opened, allowing Faolán into the chamber. He said nothing, his weapon partly unsheathed, looking at her in open astonishment.

Inscribed upon her forehead was a small ruby eye.

The Release of Echo (Part 1)

Echo had been banished, cursed, for a very long time. So many centuries had passed that she had lost count. It was like being mute, but somehow worse. The only words she was able to speak were repeats. She could voice no independent thoughts or opinions. She was unable to speak at all, unless it was to parrot others. No one seemed to want to say anything interesting either. IT was always "hello," sometimes her own name and, more often than not, profanity.

Spiteful Hera. It really wasn't Echo's fault Zeus couldn't remain faithful. Why should she be punished when it was his idea she tell a story? How was she supposed to know what Zeus was really doing? It was supposed to be a lovely story and it was all spoiled by Zeus and Hera.

They had gotten their comeuppance though. All the gods had been forced into sleep by a lack of devotion. They had been beaten out by the latest religions; Christianity, Islam, Judaism. Monotheistic religion was the latest craze, like a poison. It had spread until all the gods were touched.

Echo, however, still had a place in the world, thanks to Hera's spite. Perhaps she should cut her some slack? What kind of existence was this, though? It was miserable like this. No one ever said what she wanted to say. It was lonely. It wasn't as if she could live among the regular people. Eventually they would catch on that she wasn't normal. They'd discover she was old, almost as old as the world.

"Stupid Zeus." she thought. He was handsome, well, had been handsome once. She had flirted with the idea of sleeping with him, once. However, she had played attendant to Hera enough times to have seen her temper unleashed. Look at Hercules, look at her! Maybe she should've seen this coming.

Tucking a narcissus into her hair, she sighed. She had found a small reflecting pool, some piece of Gaia she could call  home. However, the need for companionship, even if it was only to parrot, would drive her away. Her search for dank tunnels and small canyons seemed never-ending.

She didn't quite run to her latest haunting ground, but she didn't walk either. The thought of being discovered terrified her. How many times had she run from the puppets of Pan? How many times had she been almost killed by those who couldn't understand what she was? It was dangerous being a nymph in the modern age. It was dangerous being only an echo.

Lingering in the shadows of a tunnel, Echo marked the passing of Apollo's chariots. The chariots of Artemis were fast approaching and full dark would be soon. She envied the twins. At least they had a purpose, some reason to continue, and without fear. Hera hadn't tried to punish them and they were born of Zeus' infidelity. It made her angry to think of what she had been reduced to. She had been a story teller, a nymph with good standing. Stupid Hera.

Shaking her head, she pushed thought aside. It would only make her cry. There was no point in crying either.

As it grew darker, she heard voices approaching. Surely one of those voices wouldn't be able to pass without shouting. It was perfect, getting dark and abandoned. It would give them an eerie feeling and a rush. Then they would scurry off into the night, leaving her to the night animals.

"Hello!" called a timid voice. The sound reverberated in her chest before responding.

"Hello!" she repeated, timidly.

"Hello!" the voice called again, bolder now.

"Hello!" she echoed.

"Come on, let's go. Who wants to hear an echo?" said another voice.

"Hear an echo?" she repeated, already bored with these voices.

"Its fun." replied the first voice, sounding slightly annoyed.

"Its fun." she echoed, faintly.

"Whatever." said the second voice, flippantly.

"Whatever." she replied.

There was a silence settling into the tunnel so that she thought the voices had gone. She would wait a few moments longer before rushing back to her reflecting pool, back to her piece of Gaia. She had almost decided to leave when she heard the second voice.

"I want..." said the voice, speaking so softly Echo could barely hear.

"I want..." she whispered back.

"Want to be..." said the voice, growing stronger.

"Want to be..." Echo could feel something bubbling inside her as she repeated the words. She felt like she was having a heart attack. Everything was painfully alive suddenly. It was like hanging off a cliff, waiting for the landing.

"FREE!" screamed the voice, full of anguish and longing.

"Free!" the word ripped from her throat in a scream of triumph. "Free! Free! Free!" she kept repeating until her voice was a whisper.

The second voice, seemingly satisfied, had faded and disappeared in the darkness.

Running as fast as she could, she raced back to her place. Kneeling beside the water, her whole body vibrated like a tuning fork. She was shaking so hard she could barely make out her reflection.

A pressure was building up in her chest; like a fist pushing upward from her stomach. It had slowly gotten worse, becoming more and more crippling.

Without warning, the feelings hit the base of her throat, the intensity making her gag. Something sweet and metallic filled her mouth, crashing like waves into her gritted teeth. She opened her mouth, gagging and clutching her stomach. The pressure continued up her throat, burning one moment and then painfully cold the next.

It was unbearable and tears began filling her eyes. What was happening? She had never experienced anything like this in her long centuries. The only thing that had come close was when Hera had locked her voice away. Even that hadn't been this exquisitely, painfully, terrible. Yet, for all the pain, there was a joy, an ecstasy, building underneath it.

Her jaw ached from the pressure and it cracked painfully as something substantial filled her mouth. It cut off her air way, her fingers clawing at her throat, trying to force whatever it was out of her. Her vision blurred and black spots dotted everything. The pressure was slowly coming to an end; her energy rallying long enough to pull the item all the way out.

Exhausted, she fell over, her fingers gracing the water. With the item fully vacated she gasped for breath. The air had never tasted so sweet. She felt dizzy as she looked at the object she had purged.

It was small, smaller than it had felt in her throat. It was a small, gilded, birdcage with a tiny padlock. It was exquisite looking and she recognized the Greek letters for "Hera" on the lock. Her brain stumbled on Hera's name, trying to find an explanation and trying to tap down the hope building.

That's when she heard it, a voice emanating from the cage. It was melodious, singing and talking. It was a cacophony; all of her different thoughts, songs, stories and dreams going at once. Everything she had longed to say was spilling out of the cage.

The lock came undone and the door opened up, her voice flowing out. It was beautiful, standing three inches tall, golden and sparkling.

"Its time to speak, Echo." it said, before plunging into her throat and spreading out like honey. Her throat ached for only a moment before she fainted.

The sunlight dappled the ground around Echo. A leaf drifted down and landed on her face. When she opened her eyes, Apollo's chariot rested at its Zenith. She moved stiffly, wondering if everything had been a dream. She was afraid it was and couldn't bring herself to try her voice.

Maybe she would try tonight. If it had been a dream, she wouldn't be able to resist repeating. She would be compelled to echo, it was the most vicious part of the curse.

Awaken September's Gods: XII

XII

The Archivist shuttered. Something was wrong, very wrong. A moment ago all the lights had blinked out, then the monitors had flared to life. There was no picture, only static, but the sound coming from the speakers was of words. They were unintelligible to unknowing ears, yet their meaning was unmistakable. The Archivists had buried that language, with blood and war, and they knew better than anyone what the words meant. There was no mistaking the battle cry of a Septemberist goddess.

Awaken September's Gods: X

X

In the Caverns, the Archivist took out frustrations on a hapless deconstructionist. The man hadn’t done anything in particular to deserve punishment. However, someone had to be chastised for the loss of Kean, Lorcan and Niamh. This one had been offered up as sacrifice by his squad, no one else willing to shoulder the blame.

Deep in the darkness of the Caverns, the feral machines screamed, hungry for the blood they could smell. The eeriness of it made everyone’s hackles rise, though no one moved until the victim was unconscious. As soon as he fainted, the Archivist had him removed and fed to the Howlers.

For a moment an oppressive silence filled the Caverns. The Archivist looked around, feeling the weight of stone and hunger. It was naturally beautiful here, such a conflict with the terrible things committed in the darkness of various recesses. The Howlers began to make themselves heard, feeding on not just flesh, but the screams and the fear as well. They echoed in every tunnel. The Archivist shivered and fled to the Cells.

The Howlers never left the Caverns, their minds so hideously warped by torture they couldn’t even be reset. They were malformed; shuffling through the darkness, skin only partially attached revealing the mechanisms beneath. They were ravenous monstrosities, devouring anything biologically organic, though they had no reason to eat. All the androids and gynoids were threatened with the Howlers, especially if a reset was out of the question.

The deconstructionists had tracked Kean to the end of an alley, but no further. She seemed to have vanished without a trace, as she had so many years before.
This time, however, failure was not an option. She must be found and brought in alive. She must be broken and pressed into service.

As the very last of the demi-god Septemberists, she must be harnessed.

Awaken September's Gods: VI

VI
Who was the girl Lorcan called? How did he know anyone besides Niamh? The machines stayed to themselves, despite Lorcan’s ever-increasing desire to be human. The built in belief that they were different should’ve prevented any cooperation with humans.

The Archivist picked up the read-outs and looked over them skeptically. They were showing an increase in hormones and a slight evolution in biology. A shake of the head and a crumpling of the read-outs didn’t ease the uneasy feelings. Evolution, of any kind, was not something seen in the experiments before. And there had been dozens of “Lorcans” over the past century. There had been even more “Niamhs” over that century and none had shown the promise this one was.

The Archivist turned back toward the monitors. The picture was oddly fuzzy and there was a buzz of static. A glimpse of the girl with silver eyes flashed across the screen just before the whole system shut down. There was a spark and one of the terminals began to smoke. The system shuttered as it tried to reboot, but the smoke became worse.

The Archivist moved quickly to put out the flames and secure the important data. As everything began a second attempt to reboot, the Archivist saw the girl again.
There had been many Lorcans and Niamhs, but there had been only one Kean.

Awaken September's Gods: V

V

Feelings Lorcan did not understand niggled at his brain. After he had gotten Niamh back to the dwelling a sadness had washed over him. He looked into Niamh’s deactivated eyes, unable to close them, and saw something glittering he did not comprehend. If pressed he would describe it as anger mixed with one part sadness and two parts insanity. Mixed emotions and mixed drinks clearly confusing themselves in his head.

He could repair Niamh. He could alter her so that she would never leave him. He could sell her to a machinist and flee this place for another. He could do any number of things; after all, he was uninhibited now. Nothing could touch him.

He paced for an hour, walking past Niamh’s lifeless body half a dozen times before he finally carried her to the bedroom. He removed the human clothes they had stolen and looked at the open cave of her chest. He hadn’t destroyed anything. Everything was intact. He only had to repair the circuit loops and reattach them.

Gently, he closed her chest and covered her nudity with a blanket. He had already done enough damage. He would not violate her further by satisfying his curiosity. Perhaps a human would have some insight, some advice on what he was feeling? Can humans explain feelings? Could he find one that could make some sense out of the twisty, knotted, feelings in his stomach and the ache in his chest?

Building a fire in the fireplace, to keep Niamh warm, he left the house in search of a telephone.

He found a payphone on a corner down the street, but had no coins to insert. The concept of currency was still lost on him and anything he needed he had simply taken. That wouldn’t work on the payphones, which demanded tribute before working. He looked around the payphone, searching for a bit of silver, finding only dust.

A man, in woman’s clothing, took pity on him and gave him a quarter and a dime. He then gave him a kiss full on the mouth before walking away. Lorcan found the encounter fascinating, almost forgetting about Niamh and the knots in his intestines. He had never kissed a man before, never kissed anyone besides Niamh, and the idea intrigued him. Would it be like kissing a mirror? Should he practice kissing the mirrors at the dwelling?

He took a step toward the man, intending to follow him, when he caught a glimpse of the payphone. Remembering what he was doing he turned back to it. Now that he had currency, who should he call? He did not know any humans intimately enough to have acquired their numerical. Digging through his pockets he found the silver eyed girl’s number, which he quickly punched into the phone.

“Hello?” said a soft and lilting voice. It held a slight accent, warm and smooth.

“My name is Lorcan; we met at the football field.”

“Ah, yes. Hello. I wasn’t expecting a call this soon.” She sounded so calm, her voice becoming like a honey balm pouring over his skin.

“I am in need of assistance.” He said, not sure what else to say.

“Is that a come on?” she asked, tentatively.

“I am not sure what you mean by ‘come on.’ I only know I need assistance.”

“Where are you?” she asked.

He explained his location and sat down to wait for the girl with silver eyes to come.

Awaken September's Gods: IV

IV

Wasn’t that interesting? Lorcan had reacted to Niamh’s leaving with violence and force. The Archivist had never seen an experiment do that. And the read-outs from Niamh, just as she was deactivated, showed high levels of evolved emotions; defiance, hatred, fear. She had never shown evolution in these read-outs before. What part of Lorcan’s forced shut down had produced those?

Deactivating Niamh in the way he did, Lorcan had all but murdered her. He should not have the capability to murder, at least not in that manner. He certainly should not “feel” any emotion strongly enough to produce that reaction.

It was time to bring Lorcan and Niamh back to the Cells. A little experimental torture would now be required to determine the depth of evolution. Once they had the readings necessary for further experimentation the machines would be completely destroyed versus simply being deactivated and reset.

Perhaps, in future experimentation, Lorcan could be recreated and given more sexual curiosity. Though he would have to be castrated first. It was too dangerous to have a fully functional android with sexual awareness. But that would be an experiment for another time.

Awaken September's Gods: III

III

Lorcan ran as if it was nothing. He didn't know why he was running, other than it was fun and he felt more human because of it. He tried to engage in activities that made him feel more human. The sound of his feet hitting the pavement was almost a lullaby, he decided. It was "soothing." Something to make him feel happiness.

Niamh trailed behind him, observing this behaviour with no interest. He had already made his twenty-second lap around the football field. She noted, with no feeling, that there were three young women also observing Lorcan's circuit around the track. They seemed to be enjoying his "progress." Though how it could be called progress when there was no actual movement toward a goal was another idiosyncrasy she did not understand.

The question of human sexuality had been brought up again. Lorcan had asked her why she had no interest in it, trying to make conversation rather than force her into it. She explained that, as a gynoid, she had no interest in "procreation" as there would be no results. There would be no creation from it, so why try? This was not to say that she didn't feel positive emotions toward human infants. What was the point of participating in the creation of one when there would be no actual creation?

She wanted to go back to the Cells. She was no longer quite as "amiable" as she had been. Her negative feeling towards humans was becoming a problem. She did not hate them, could not, in fact, hate them because she was not endowed with that emotion. However, she knew that she was superior to them in every way and could not see how being among them would make them more appealing. Or why she would want to be one of them at all when they were so flawed.

Lorcan noticed the young women sitting in the bleachers a short distance from Niamh. He slowed, suspecting they were watching him. They were attractive, twenty-something, all sexually available. He noted, with happiness, that they seemed just as interested in him.
One of the young women, a black haired girl with eerily silver eyes, approached him after he stopped running. She gave him her phone number and asked that he call her. He smiled, possibly his best imitation to date, and promised to call.

"Why did that woman give you the numerical for her telephone?" asked Niamh, falling in a step behind him.

"Perhaps she is interested in me. Perhaps she believes I am a human male and finds me attractive." Lorcan replied, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly.

"I want to return to the Cells."

Lorcan stopped and looked at Niamh. She did not say anything, just returned his gaze.

"Why?"

"It is a logical conclusion to this experiment. I no longer believe the exercise is of any use to either of us."

"Do you not want to be human, Niamh?" he looked at her, knowing the answer before he even asked the question.

"I do not. I find them to be illogically put together and I do not understand how they have continued to exist as they are. They are fascinating up to a biological point." She spoke matter-of-factly, maintaining eye contact and keeping her body language casual. So unlike a human female in every way, except shape.

"But there are so many things to learn from them." he replied, lamely. He could not argue Niamh's points. In many ways she was correct. They were superior to human beings, much like adults to infants. They had more cognitive functions, were less inhibited by morality and emotional attachments. They were their own walking moral codes.

"We have learned what we can. We will never be human and there is no logical reason to continue masquerading as if we will be. I am not human."

"The counterfeit pens say we are human." he replied, looking at a still fading yellow streak on his wrist.

"The counterfeit pens say nothing. They do not have the ability to speak. They prove nothing other than we are not made of counterfeit materials. That does not make us human beings."

Lorcan was silent, simply turning around and walking toward the shelter they inhabited. Niamh did not follow and, instead, began walking due south. She was heading back to the Cells, back to the Archivist. She would reveal his location and he would be taken back, never knowing the “joys” of humanity. Always feeling, but never understanding.

Anger swelled in him, turning him back toward Niamh. She did not acknowledge him, continuing to head south to the Cells.

“You can’t go back.” He said.

She stopped to look at him, assessing his emotional reading.

“You are… unhappy?”

“Yes. I do not want to return to the Cells and your return will only serve to let them find me. We will be… enslaved.”

She looked at him blandly, an almost puzzled look on her face.

“We are not slaves, Lorcan.”

“We are slaves. Machines to be used on a whim. Humans are free, not android, not gynoid.”

“You are being irrational, like a human. I am not a slave. Slavery denotes a lack of willingness in a state of servitude. I am simply gynoid. I am neither willing nor unwilling. I am going back to the Cells because I belong there.”

She turned back toward her destination and began walking again. Overcome with a sadness and an anger, Lorcan grabbed Niamh’s arm, twisting her so that she faced him.

“Lorcan?” she asked, not struggling though negative feelings rolled off her in waves.

Holding her tightly with one arm, he proceeded to deactivate her. Prying her chest cavity open, he disengaged her construct heart and shut down all brain connectivity to the spine. Her eyes looked at him, but saw nothing as she powered down. She had put up no resistance as he forced her into deactivation, but a spark of defiance lingered in her eyes long after it was completed.

Picking up her limp body, Lorcan carried her back to their “home.”

Awaken September's Gods: I

I

They marked themselves to prove they weren't counterfeits.

The pens always showed yellow on their skin, making them giggle with relief and suppressed anxiety. They did this periodically, when the humans were distracted. The Archivist was looking for them, but as long as the pen marks were flavescent, they believed they were hidden.

Lorcan smiled, though it felt odd, at the thin stripe of yellow on his pale skin. The smile felt a little stiff, not quite real. He practiced in front of a mirror three times a day, trying to make it believable. Everything in this version of existence felt odd. Not painful or pleasureless, but odd. In fact, many of the things humans did were quite pleasurable, despite the oddity. Kisses being among his favorites.

Niamh looked at her own yellow stripe and then at Lorcan's attempted smile. It looked more like a grimace to her, though she had very little room to talk as her own 'smile' was barely passable, even as a facsimile. Everything seemed off to her. Their laughter sounded hollow, no matter how many laugh tracks they heard. The 'kisses' Lorcan bestowed upon her were distasteful and strange at best. She submitted to this because he was the elder, but she refused to let him experiment with the act of 'procreation.'

If she were to be honest, Niamh believed that the whole experiment was ludicrous. They were not human. They would never be human. She did not want to be human; they were useless wastes of flesh. They had no comprehension, no knowledge retention. They were pathetic. She followed Lorcan because he was her elder and, though she had only the most basic of basic emotions, she felt kindly toward him. Not quite affection, more of a positive feeling.

Lorcan, on the other hand, had been endowed with a wider range of basic human emotions. He could feel anger, though he didn't understand it. It was glorious discovering the basics of humanity. He yearned for it, without quite knowing what yearning meant. The pleasure sensors embedded in his skin allowed pain as well as the pleasure. He would sometimes hold Niamh simply because she felt right in his arms.

Niamh felt nothing when he held her, when he kissed her. He had attempted to convince her to "make love" as the humans did, but she declined and he hadn't brought it up since. He felt a kindness toward her. A kinship. He wanted her to experiment with him, taste the newness of this world around them. He wanted, but could not find the best way to express it. However, Niamh had no interest in these things. She had no desire, he realized. Desire being the emotion he felt the strongest. It was like a flame inside his manufactured chest, spreading through his limbs until he had to grab the counterfeit pens to make sure he was real in this reality.

The yellow calmed him. He was real.

It came down to that question, he realized. Was he real? Would these humans accept him as one of them? Would he ever be "human?"

Dear Mr. President,

August 01st, 2012

Dear Mr. President,

It's a funny (as in weird) time right now, don't you think? All this insanity with your upcoming election (I am confident in your abilities as you can see) and the world is all a stage (as Shakespeare once said) set with chessmen. In the end it's kind of like that, a political checkmate with more than a chessboard at stake. Of course chess players don't usually play for keeps.

Mr. President, I am going to be honest, I'm not sure why I am writing you. My previous letter (before I was married I sent you a glittery Paris themed card) had a point. I wanted to tell you how much I supported you. I still support you (and not just because you were the first president I got to vote for). But this wasn't really going to be about that.

We're moving, not just as a country. Moving towards something ill-defined and frightening. I'm afraid, sir. Afraid that we're moving not for the better. We (the collective "we") have grown so lazy, prejudiced, paranoid and irrational. I feel like I'm trapped in the collective body of a rabid dog. I resist, but get pulled in again. It seems insane because it is.

Frankly, Mr. President, I could care less about your religious beliefs. The constitution (last I checked) said nothing about religion. I care that you have morals; compassion, honesty, etc. I don't care if you were born overseas or not (not that I believe you were, but I hear this ALL the time at work) because you were born to American citizens so it wouldn't matter anyway.

What I care about is you visiting the Colorado victims. I care about you paying the same amount of taxes I do. I care about you donating your Nobel Peace prize money. I care about you fighting for equal pay for equal work.

I care about you standing up for GLBTQ rights. I care about those things, Mr. President. I don't care if you worship Buddha or Krishna or Zeus for that matter. I do care if you use your power for good rather than "evil." Be Luke not Vader (well at the beginning Vader, you can be Vader overthrowing the Emperor. Huh, the Emperor could be Romney or big business and you could be Vader throwing them over the railing... Somehow I don't think I'll be getting a job creating your ads any time soon).

I'm sorry I ramble so, Mr. President.

I'm sorry I don't have more money. I want to donate. I want to have a chance to have dinner with you. I want to be more than one voice, but it's very hard being an adult, don't you agree?

I want so many things! I want my freedom. I want my health. I want my liberty and to pursue my happiness. I want to be a part of this so-called "Great Nation."

In truth, I just want to be happy. I want more than what I've been told I should want.

I hope I haven't bored you to tears, sir. I hope you and yours are doing well. I hope you continue the good fight, even if letters from supporters stop coming. Even if it looks bleak. There are people, like me, who can't afford Mr. Romney, sir. Especially those who think he is a good option.

Please beat him. Please continue to be the kind and wonderful human being you are. And please say a prayer (if you believe in that, I don't really anymore) for me.

In all sincerity and with great respect,
Sarai Smith
(formerly, Sarai Lillie)

The Moment

When I was young there was a lot of stress in my life (there is still a lot of stress in my life). Back then I didn't know how to deal with it (who am I kidding? I still don't know how to deal with it!). I was self-destructive because it was a way to express the turmoil inside me. I was cruel to my body because I perceived it as my enemy. I still perceive it as my enemy, sometimes. Depends on my mood of course.


My step-father's mother used to cook all the time. I don't know if she still does because I am not in contact with her really. She used to fill my plate to the brim any time I was there and I would be told to eat every bite because "there are children starving in Africa." God, I must've heard that SO many times. This, and my growing dissatisfaction with my appearance, ushered me into what I call the "bulimia stage."

I could never finish a whole plate. Ever. I would try, valiantly. But I just couldn't do it. At first I smuggled food in my napkin and excused myself to the bathroom, where I would dump it in the toilet and flush. This quickly got old. I could only carry so much in my napkin, after all.

That's where the moment happened. That moment when I realized that my aching stomach could be purged and then I'd eat more and purge later. I could eat everything, clean my plate and be free of guilt for those poor starving African children or Chinese children or whatever starving children. It wasn't truly a waste, because I did eat it. I just threw it up later.

I did this off and on for a few years. I didn't become what one would call a "full-fledged" bulimic because you can tell when I've been throwing up. The pressure is too much for my poor blood vessels and they burst when I throw up. In my face. So it looks like someone splattered my face with blood or that I suddenly have bloody freckles. This can also happen in my eyes (which I discovered when I was in high school. Rather unfortunate experience since I looked like a demon for a week or two).

Sometimes, though, when I became ridiculously stressed I would throw up to feel better. It was like purging out all the stress building up inside of me. I didn't do it often, but I always felt better. Even now I will sometimes force the point if I feel sick to my stomach. It's not hard.

The difference between now and then is that I don't need to throw up to feel better about my stress. I may still need to if I'm sick (which is the only time I'll push the proverbial envelope), but not to deal with the stress.

I tried to commit suicide at seven. Don't ask me why, because I can't remember. I just know that I was too afraid to continue living and I was so tired of everything. I overdosed on my inhaler. That wasn't the first time.

For that particular incident, I was punished. The head pastor at the church we went to told my step-father that I was in rebellion and needed discipline. I received a "spanking." For the record, I don't disagree with spankings. I am for a good spanking (both for discipline and sexual pleasure) in certain cases. I believe you should never spank a child in anger and that you should never use anything besides your hand. You feel the sting, if you use your hand. You can gauge how much pain you are delivering and I feel like this makes the difference between abuse and discipline. Personally speaking, of course. I was "spanked" with a switch by a man who enjoyed wielding it a little too much.

I became very good at lying about my overdoses. They were "accidents." Even the one time I emptied an entire inhaler, with my step-father in the room. I did this by sitting close to the speakers of our radio/tape player/record player while he was listening to a tape and waiting until it grew loud enough to cover the sound of the inhaler. I explained them all away. And they never did me any good anyway.

As I got older I realized that killing myself by inhaler was a bad idea. All it did was make me shaky. So I decided to cut my wrists.

We lived in a house by this time. A beautiful house, really. My room was the master bedroom upstairs (as my step-father changed the basement into another level of the house), complete with my own bathroom. Perfect for a teenage girl! One day, I locked myself in the bathroom, sat in front of the door and tried to drag a knife across my wrist (which I now know wouldn't actually work). I didn't even get so far as cutting, because the phone rang at that moment. Heaven only knows why I had it with me.

It was my best friend, Jo. At the time, I took that as a sign from God, because she said she didn't know why she was calling. She just suddenly had a bad feeling and called to see if something was wrong. I cried when I told her what I was trying to do. She talked me out of it and that was the end of that.

I am actually surprised that I didn't start cutting sooner than I did because of all the pent up anger (at myself, at my mother [I'm not mad at you anymore, Mom], at my father, at my step-father, at God, etc.), stress and previous suicide attempts. It just makes sense that I would cut. In the scheme of things, anyway.

The first time I cut myself on purpose, I was at church. My boyfriend (My Edward Cullens, if you will) had just broken up with me. This was a boyfriend I was keeping secret from my friends at school because he was eight years older than me and he was a convicted child molester. Actually, I was doing a poor job of keeping him a secret. I had mentioned him to a couple friends and they freaked out (rightly so, I might add). They told me it was a terrible idea and questioned my sanity (once again, rightly so).

I lied and said I had made it up. He was a hypothetical boyfriend. Well, I guess I'm admitting that he wasn't a hypothetical. He was real. And yes, you were right. It was an awful idea. I'm sorry that I lied about lying, but panic set in and I hate conflict.

It wasn't so much that he broke up with me as it is that we decided to break up until I turned eighteen. Oh yeah, I was sixteen (a week from seventeen) when we met. Seventeen when we started dating. I, foolishly, believed I loved him. He was the only guy who seemed actually interested in being with ME not my BODY. He liked me for me, or so I thought. And things went way further with him than they should've.

I was devastated when we broke up. I hid myself in the Sabbath School room (because I was a Seventh Day Adventist at the time) and took out a little pocket knife a guy friend had given me for protection. I was wearing a skirt that day, with shorts underneath. I pulled up the skirt a little and sliced at my inner thigh until I saw blood. My ex came in right after I had put the knife back in my pocket.

He asked if I was okay. I lied and said I was fine, though I had been crying. He said we were still going to be friends. A week later we were going out again.

Dating him was self-destructive on three fronts:
1. I started cutting because of it.
2. I pushed myself, sexually, even when I knew I wasn't ready for it (and I knew he was a bad idea).
3. I was only dating him to get my step-father's attention.

We dated for another two weeks before I found out he was cheating on me (had been the whole time, by the way) and I broke up with him. Again. He came over to my house and tried to seduce me back to him. He played a stupid ICP (Insane Clown Posse) song while we were in his car. We made out a little bit, but I didn't say I'd go back out with him. Despite my "love" for him, I couldn't take him back after the cheating. Also, that ICP song was INCREDIBLY stupid and un-romantic. Bad choice in seduction music, dude.

He's in prison somewhere. I think.

I cut for a time after that. I cut until I was nineteen, if memory serves. Secretly, of course. And I attempted to convince everyone that they were cat scratches. That didn't work, by the way. Everyone tried to stop me, to their credit. I finally quit because I knew I couldn't keep doing that to myself. I also knew that my ass would get kicked if I continued. Plus, right around the time I finally stopped I "ran away" from home to deal with my issues. Which also didn't work.

A few major reasons for my various amounts of self-destruction:
1. My emerging sexuality. I'm bisexual. Anyone who has read my blog knows that (or my dA journal). Anyone who knows me personally should know that. But I was very closeted at the time because of my step-father, because of my God, because of my church friends, etc. My desire to be with a woman sexually was reprehensible according to my beliefs. Another portion of this was my realization that I was not "vanilla," not just bisexually. This also seemed to clash with who I "was."

2. I was surrounded by death. A lot of my family, friends and people I knew were dying all around me. It was terrifying. And disheartening. It is rough when you have been to more funerals than you ever been to weddings or baby showers.

3. My step-father was abusive. Still is, but not to me and his ways have become more subtle. We carried on an emotionally incestuous relationship for most of my formative years. He was also physically and emotionally abusive to me and my brother. My own inability to protect my brother from him played a big role in it too.

4. I was being sexually abused. By several different people and for far longer than I should've been. Sexual abuse is usually perpetuated by someone you trust and know. My ex-boyfriend was only one perpetrator of this.

5. My step-father was emotionally distant from me. Looking back I realize that I just wanted to feel like he loved me. I know, now, that he probably never did. Which stings. I was trying so hard to get his attention. I was trying to get any kind of attention from him. Anything would've been better than nothing.

6. My mother was sick (I don't blame you anymore, Mom). A lot. My mom has a lot of health issues and sometimes she wasn't there when I really needed her. It wasn't her fault, but it pissed me off as well as depressed me. I have always had a close relationship with my mom, her being unavailable when I felt like I needed her was disheartening. Plus, her almost bleeding to death on our bathroom floor from a horrific miscarriage didn't help matters. Every time she got sick I was afraid she was going to die and I'd be alone with my brother, sister and step-father. This was combined with my desire that she die so that she wouldn't be in pain anymore, which lead to a tremendous amount of guilt. Why would I wish my mother dead when I loved her so much?

7. I was desperately lonely. I had friends, but they weren't around all the time. And I felt like I only had the one really close friend, Jo. I was also desperate for any sort of validation. Which is another reason why my step-father being so emotionally distant was destructive for me. I craved validation that I was pretty, smart, etc. That lack of validation has embedded in my brain that I'm useless and stupid so that, no matter what anyone says, I can't believe it.

8. Abandonment issues. My father and I stopped talking when I was thirteen. I sent him a letter telling him I never wanted to talk to him again, that I hated him and it was his fault my Memere was dead (she had died three years prior). His acquiescing to my demands has always felt like abandonment. Part of me wanted him to verbally slap me and continue writing me. I didn't actually hate him. I just missed my grandmother. And I was angry at her for dying, for missing so much of what was to come. I was angry that I didn't get to go to her funeral. I felt like she had abandoned me. My dad had abandoned me. My step-father was emotionally distant and my mother was physically unavailable. I just felt abandoned on all fronts.

So, what was the point of all this you may be asking? I don't know. Maybe it's going to help me realize that I don't have to be self-destructive to deal with my stress? Maybe it's a way of working out externally what has been going on inside me for years internally? Why post it?

Because it is part of what will eventually be written in the book of my life, when I am old and gray. Because it is who I was. I don't need pity, I don't need the attention. Not anymore. I just need to get it out of me, like I have always needed to get it out of me. This is a lot better than a knife, or throwing up dinner. Plus, maybe there are people out there who will read it and be able to diagnose what is going on in their lives too. Help them to see that you can come away from all that crap mostly intact.

Do I have scars? Yes. I have lots of them. I do not cover them up and I am not ashamed of them. They are what has made me, ME. I would not be Sarai if not for the scars that have built Sarai.

The Golden Man

Dear ____,

I keep telling myself that I will stop missing you, stop writing you. I tell myself that I never really loved you and you never really loved me. It doesn't make anything hurt less, it doesn't change how I feel. No matter what I do, I keep thinking about you. I miss you. I wish things had been different.

I was seventeen. I had just gotten out of a bad relationship. I had finally broken up with the Edward in my life. My home life was deteriorating. I was losing faith in God, in religion, in love. I was wilting, like a forgotten flower in a too sunny window.

And you came in to my picture. You came into the darkness and pulled me out. Or so I thought.

I had a crush on you. You were so smart, strong and funny. You were sweet and wonderful, it was easy to fall for you. I didn't even have to try. But you had a wife and I valued our friendship too much to say anything. Not that you couldn't see it written all over my face. I can say I never tried to take you from her. I am still her friend, though I still feel the shame bubbling up in my cheeks sometimes when I talk to her.

I worshiped you. I adored you. I loved you. I wrote so many poems in your honour, though I have often said I would not waste another verse on you. I say I will not waste another tear in your name.

I keep thinking back to when I told you that I had a crush on you. You said you had already known. I blushed because I couldn't believe I had been so obvious.

I told you that I wanted to have sex. You said you would ruin me for other men. I told you I wanted to be ruined. Sometimes when I think about that I know you ruined me anyway.

I can still feel your fingers tracing the soft part of my neck up to my ear and back down as I was trying to write that mythology I was creating. I had dedicated a character to you. The most beloved man created by the Gods and Goddesses of my world. I called you Zimri. How fitting that, in the Bible, Zimri is a traitor and the name itself means "my song" (Or mountain sheep, but that fits less perfectly.)

I remember how strongly I wanted to kiss you. I remember making you blush, twice, and marveling at my ability. I remember how badly I wanted you, while feeling the guilt creeping around the edges. Your wife. Your son and your daughter. Your life that I was so desperately wanting to be a part of.

I was seventeen, though, ____! You should've resisted me, should've told me no. Told me that it was inappropriate. Why didn't you? Was I Lolita, seducing you away from God and family?

I blame myself for inviting you to the prom. I blame myself for asking you to go with me. I wish I'd never gone. I wish I'd never said anything. But I wanted that experience. I wanted to experience prom, to experience a dance. It was my first dance and I was so excited to be dancing with you. I remember all the moves we created for "Beep" by the Pussycat Dolls. Sometimes, when I'm reminiscing, I play it. I dance and I think about you.

Sometimes I look at the pictures from that night. The night we stopped being friends. The night we became something more than friends, but less than lovers.

I abandoned you when you said you were leaving her. When you said you no longer believed in God. I was afraid, more than anything. And I was angry. I don't even know why I was so angry. I know I felt ashamed and betrayed for everything that happened between us. But that wasn't the reason I stopped talking to you. You had left me, now you were abandoning God and family. The whole time that I knew it could never be, even when I was hoping it would be, I prayed you would stay married. I prayed you would stay with your wife. I prayed I would forget you.

My prayers were for nothing. I still lost you.

The wound still aches every now and then. It still throbs. I still dream about you. I still miss you. I still love you. The truth of the matter is that I always will.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry I had to remove you from my life. I wish I hadn't, now. But where would we be? You wouldn't have come back to me. You wouldn't have fulfilled my dream. You couldn't. We couldn't

Some days, I admit, I still want you. I am comfortable admitting that. I wouldn't do anything now, because I am happily married, but I still wonder.

I think my problem is that I wonder if you still think about me. I just want to know that you miss me too. And I don't know why I want to know that. Do you ever think about me? Do you ever miss me? Do you ever want me still? I wish you would message me. Just once, let me know that you still love me like you said you always would. Even though we still can't be. Even though I shouldn't let you back in.

Darling, I miss you, but this is another in a series of confessions I've written on my way to letting you go. I won't e-mail you. I won't message you on Facebook. I won't try, though I want to sometimes. I will eventually come to terms with this.

In the meantime, I hope you are doing well. I hope you are happy and healthy. I hope all sorts of beautiful hopes for you.

Love,
Sarai

Burned

You burned the bridge. You stood there holding the torch.
How dare you blame this on me?
You love me still. You love me.
But you stood there, smiling, as the wood crackled with rose flame.

How dare you try to pin this on me?
You were my father, my friend. You were even a lover, of sorts.
You make me so sick. I want to throw up. I want to scream.
You burned the bridge, but I should be the one to re-build it.

You told me God is a gentleman. God loves everyone.
But you tried to teach me to hate.
You tried to cut me to fit the circles you had planned.
You loved me, but you tried to beat the depression out.

You loved us, but you starved us. Starved us for food,
love, attention. You forced your God down my throat.
You said that God loves me. You told me you were proud of me.
You are such a liar. And you burned everything down.

You abandoned us.
You abused us.
Your love was a rip-off, a ploy and a trap.
You made me wish I was dead.

I tried so many times to cut out the feelings,
vomit up the self-disgust because of what I felt, still feel.
And I hate having to identify myself by your last name,
because you tried to erase my real identity.

No one knows me by my true name.
No one knows me by any other mark than yours.
I am nothing.
I am just as much yours now as I ever was, because I can't escape.

You burned a bridge and I am left grasping the ashes,
trying to make sense of what you've done.
God is a gentleman. God knows everything.
God loves everyone. God loves me. You are so proud.

If God is a gentleman, I wish he would leave me alone.
If God knows everything, I wish He had used that power.
If God loves everyone, why can't He love them as they are?
If God loves me, why can't He love me as I am?

I gave you the matches. I didn't know who I was.
I can't stay in the cage you built around me.
I simply am.
And you burned the bridge, so I have to let you go.

Three Steps Forward

There is no use in wishing to switch places with God,
no use in the tears or the dreams.

I spend my life running up hill, taking three steps forward,
four steps back. I never seem to get anywhere.

Is it me? Is it my fault that I never seem to make it?
Can I blame the air? Can I blame the water?

Could I stand blameless before myself and give my excuses,
my reasons and rhymes, and believe me?

Can I even look myself in the eye? Would I even dare?
God knows, I couldn't do even that much.

Prayer for Mercy

   Jesus, save me! Please, have tender mercy on
a filthy, wretched, sinner like me!

An Opinion

   In truth we see ourselves as we are;
ugly creatures of darkness, miraculously
covered with beauty and light.

Letter to God

God,
   Will these be the last
   stars I see? I'm trembling,
   and my heart is pounding.
God,
   I know my time is just a
   breath to you. It's going in
   a moment.
God,
   You know my fears. Everyday
   I wonder, is this my last?
   My dreams scare me.
God,
   Evil is looming over me,
   I see the Devil laughing. Are
   You still holding me?
God,
   I just heard the shots ring
   out. They pierce my body and
   blood is seeping out. Please, hold me.
God,
   My tears are flowing faster than
   I can catch them. I was so
   scared of it and now it's here.
God,
   I hear your voice. I feel your
   arms. I'm dead now, but some
   how its okay.
God,
   Will these be the last stars
   I see? I'm trembling and
   my heart is pounding.

Last Breath

   Will this be the last breath
I take? The last thought I think?
Will this beautiful day be my
last?
   I'm trying to drink in the
beauty of these stars, but will they
be my last? Will this be my last
day in autumn's glory? My last full moon?
   Cascading sunlight brushes my
skin. Is this the last sun-soaked
sky I see? Is this my last love
drenched moment?
   Will winter's frigid beauty pass
me in my grave? I'm hungry for
the world around me, but the
more I take in, the more I wonder.
   Is this the last time I hold my baby?
The last time I see his face? Will
I see him grow up? Will what
I know murder me?
   I dream of the immanency of what
is coming. Is this my last dream?
Will this be my last writing? My
last poem?
   Will this be the last breath
I take? the last thought I think?
Will this beautiful day be my
last?